The Viscount's Vow (A Regency Romance)

by Cameron, Collette

  He made a mental note to pursue that avenue later.

  He returned his gaze to the encampment. Several men and women were engaged in various activities along the river’s edge. Others were gathered in small groups around fires, while some of the men smoked pipes or strummed mandolins and violins.

  A few Roma were settled against the massive tree trunks playing cards. Conversations ceased, even the children stopped their joyful antics, when he rode to the center of the camp. As a single entity, the Roma turned their dark, expressive eyes to stare at him.

  Four men separated themselves from the others, including the gypsy who’d taken Vangie behind him on his horse hours ago. Who the devil was he? A relative? A would-be-lover? Jealousy ripped a jagged course through Ian.

  Steady old chap. Keep your head.

  A distinguished looking man, his hair peppered with gray and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache and beard, approached him.

  The Roma bowed. “Sastimos, Lord Warrick, I am Yoska Bailey.”

  So, they had been expecting him. No surprise there.

  Yoska made a sweeping gesture, “I am bandolier to these noble people. Please, won’t you dismount, and join us in a cup?”

  Ian gave a sharp nod, then dismounted, the whole while searching for any sign of Vangie. It was futile. If she was here, and from the greeting he’d just received, he’d wager Somersfield she was, she was hiding.

  “I’ll see to your horse, your lordship.”

  The lad reaching for Pericles’s reins looked vaguely familiar. “Thank you. He could use a drink. . .”

  “Milosh, my lord.” The boy gave him a toothy grin before leading the stallion away.

  Ah, he was the boy Vangie spoke to in Brunswick. Ian watched him. The lad knew what he was about. Pericles would be fine. Ian turned his gaze to the man who’d carried Vangie off.

  “Where’s my wife?”

  Smiling, his white teeth a stark contrast to his dark skin, Yoska chided gently “In good time, your lordship, in good time. Come, sit with us,” he invited.

  Moving in the direction of the other, larger vardo, he said, “My nephew, Besnik, brought Zora to us.”

  Ian met Besnik’s hard, unyielding stare. There was no contrition in his black eyes.

  Perplexed, Ian scowled. “Zora?”

  Smiling, Yoska explained, “Evangeline is Zora’s Gadžo name, her Christian name. All Roma have one.”

  Indicating the two other men trailing behind them, Yoska said, “The brothers Zimmar, Nicu and Tobar.”

  Each man inclined his head, though, they like Besnik, said nothing.

  At the vardo, Yoska indicated a stool with a wave of his hand. “Please, have a seat, my lord.”

  He waited until Ian was seated, then he sat on another stool. “Eldra, bring lavina.”

  A stunning young woman leaned from the wagon. She smiled seductively at Ian. The loose neckline of her canary-colored blouse gaped, exposing her heavy, swinging breasts. One of the gypsies . . . Nicu? . . . frowned at her blatant display, before lifting impassive eyes to Ian.

  “Aue, Dai, at once,” she murmured in a husky, accented voice.

  The woman Ian had seen upon first entering the clearing approached. Though middle-aged, she was still beautiful.

  She greeted him in flawless English. “I am Simone Bašavel Caruthers, my lord, Zora’s grandmother.”

  He stood, then bowed. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madam Caruthers. Vangie speaks of you often.”

  Madam Caruthers angled her head. He met her fathomless, penetrating gaze. Why did he feel like she was assessing him? Weighing him against something unsaid?

  Eldra descended the wagon’s steps, balancing a jug and wooden mugs on a tray. She sashayed the few steps to the men and handed each one a mug. Tugging the stopper from the jug, she filled the cups, leaving Ian’s until the last. Bent over him, she offered another tantalizing view of her full breasts. She smiled a blatant invitation as she poured his dram.

  Ian kept his gaze trained on the vardo behind her, very aware of the five pairs of eyes assessing him. Eldra’s bosom was mere inches from his nose, her heavy perfume filling his nostrils. He angled away from her and took a healthy quaff of the beer.

  Madam Caruthers said something in Romanese. Eldra straightened abruptly. A pout on her full lips, she glared at the older woman. With a huff and a shrug of her bare shoulders, Eldra strutted from them, swinging her curvy hips. She joined a group of giggling women. They kept sending sidelong glances in Ian’s direction.

  He met Madam Caruthers’s eyes. “My wife is in your wagon?”

  Ailsa came bounding across the clearing. Dipping Ian a hasty, half-curtsy, she panted, “Madam, my lady asks for you. She’s in an awful way. It’s not her bruised ribs or one of her megrims either.”

  “It’s as I feared.” Madame Caruthers closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. “May God, be merciful.”

  Opening them once more, she sent Ian an indecipherable look before she hurried to her wagon, then climbed nimbly inside.

  He swung his gaze back to the quartet. They watched him with hooded eyes. Worry niggled unrelentingly. “Gentlemen, I won’t be kept from my wife any longer.”

  Setting his cup aside, Ian moved purposefully in the direction of Madam Caruthers’s vardo.

  No one tried to stop him, and he was thankful. A brawl wouldn’t endear him to Vangie’s family and clan, but he would not be deterred again. He slowed his steps as he neared the wagon. Just how did one go about seeking admittance to this miniature home on wheels?

  Yoska appeared by his side. Ian suppressed a start of surprise.

  “You bid permission to enter, though they’ll not likely grant it, just yet.” It seemed Yoska’s black eyes held a secret he’d not willingly share with Ian.

  Confound it all. Could all Roma read minds? He was beginning to think so. It was uncanny . . . unnerving.

  He traveled the few remaining steps to the vardo. He could hear rustling around inside. Was that a woman weeping softly? Vangie?

  “Madam Caruthers?” Hesitant, he spoke quietly.

  Several moments passed before the door finally opened, and Ailsa poked her tousled head out.

  “My wife?”

  “Um, yer lordship, I’m to bid you—” She slid her gaze over her shoulder, then sucked in a bracing breath before forging on.

  “You needs to cool your heels, and rest your arse over yonder ‘till the princess bids you come.” The maid slanted her head at a grove of trees behind the wagon.

  Rest his arse? Princess?

  Chapter 28

  Ian wasn’t sure which statement shocked him more.

  With those brash words, Ailsa retreated inside the wagon, closing the door with a firm thud.

  The camp resumed its activity, though there was an unmistakable aura of heaviness looming over it now. Ian wandered to the maple trees situated some distance behind Madam Caruthers’s vardo. The Roma left him to himself, though whether as an act of courtesy or ostracism was unclear.

  He relaxed against a tree, alternating his gaze between the encampment and the wagon. What was happening inside? Was Vangie seriously injured? Surely Madam Caruthers would have told him if such was the case. Unless Vangie had told her Lucinda’s lies. And Madam Caruthers believed them.

  God’s blood. He should have sent for a physician the moment he arrived. He straightened, intending to pound on the wagon door until he had an answer.

  Patience, wisdom whispered in his ear. He slumped against the tree. The devil take it, he’d yet to master that virtue.

  Dusk settled over the clearing, and the smell of food being prepared for the evening meal permeated the temperate air. Ian’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since breaking his fast early this morning. He
shifted his stance away from the gypsies. Placing his shoulder against the tree, he stared at the strip of water meandering along the shallow embankment.

  This morning . . . so much had transpired since then.

  He’d awoken with his arms wrapped around his incredible wife. His heart filled with an unfamiliar happiness, he’d slipped from their tousled bed. Standing nude, he’d been content to stare at Vangie for several minutes.

  He grinned. She had been sleeping soundly, curled on her side, her mouth parted. Every few minutes, she’d make a soft sound in her throat. Was she dreaming of the vigorous night they’d spent together? Exploring each other’s bodies, reaching untold degrees of ecstasy, unlike anything he’d ever experienced before?

  He’d tried to introduce her to lovemaking gradually. “Sweeting, I don’t want you to be shocked or disgusted.”

  “Pish, posh, Ian. God created this glorious gift for husband and wives.” She said this while climbing to lie atop him.

  “I don’t understand why people whisper about it like it’s something wicked or sinful.” Peering into his eyes, a naughty glimmer in hers, she said, “I expect you to teach me everything you know.”

  She proved to be a very good pupil, completely uninhibited and eager to try whatever provocative idea he suggested. He hardened at the sensual memories, a smile hovering on his mouth.

  “My lord?”

  Ian swiveled to face Madam Caruthers. Engrossed in his musings, he hadn’t heard her approach. She appeared drained. In the deepening dusk, he stared at her. Was sorrow etched on her face and mirrored in her eyes?

  “Vangie? Is she all right? Was she badly injured when the horse tossed her? Should we send for a physician?” He cursed inwardly. Why hadn’t he insisted someone go for a leech immediately?

  “She suffered some bruised ribs. . .”

  Ian released his breath in a whoosh. “So it’s nothing serious? There’s no need for alarm?”

  “Lord Warrick,” Madam Caruthers laid her hand on his arm, “she lost the babe.”

  Ian gawked at her, his mind gone blank, not comprehending her words. He refused to believe what he’d heard. Shaking his head, he tried to dislodge the buzzing in his ears.

  “The babe? There was a babe?” he rasped, barely able to form the words.

  “She didn’t tell me.” Agony tore him asunder. He whispered hoarsely, “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  Madam Caruthers’s sympathy filled eyes shimmered with tears. “Zora didn’t know she was with child.”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “It happens sometimes, especially with the first.”

  Ian’s head reeled. Disbelief, fear, and absolute rage toward Lucinda thrummed through him. Then complete and utter devastation for his wife.

  “I want to see her.”

  Madam Caruthers tilted her head and studied him for a long, disquieting moment. What was she looking for? Her lips curved into a sad, half-smile. “I thought you would.”

  Slipping her hand into the crook of Ian’s elbow, she began leading him to her vardo.

  “My lord,”

  “Please, call me Ian.”

  “Ian, Zora . . . Vangie, is desolate. She needs time to heal, physically and emotionally.” She peered into his eyes, the evening shadows making it impossible to read her expression.

  “Please, permit her that. Don’t make any decision right now, no matter what she says.”

  Surprised by her vehemence, Ian nodded.

  She squeezed his arm. “Promise me, Ian.”

  In the darkness she couldn’t see his curt nod. “I promise, Madam Caruthers,” he answered solemnly.

  “We’re familia now, Ian. Please, call me Simone.”

  Family? She considered him family? The notion didn’t cheer him as it might have when he arrived earlier today.

  “I give you my word, Simone. I’ll be patient with my wife.”

  God willing.

  “I’ll allow you some privacy then.”

  With a graceful angling of her head, and a swirl of her colorful skirts, she wandered to a nearby wagon. A fire burned merrily before it. Ailsa was seated near the dancing flames talking animatedly to Besnik.

  The gypsy raised his head to stare at Ian. Across the distance, their gazes clashed. Ian saw accusation blazing in Besnik’s eyes.

  Turning, Ian climbed the narrow stairs to the wagon’s entrance. He opened the door and was taken aback at the caravan’s deceptively roomy interior. A lantern hung from an iron hook on the ceiling to the left of the door. It cast a soft glow on the still form huddled beneath a vibrant quilt. The bed looked more like a folding shelf. It was practical and efficient given the close confines of the vardo.

  Vangie’s back was to him. Was she awake?

  Even though the door swung shut without a sound, Vangie knew the moment Ian stepped inside. Two steps, then he stood beside her. The stool beneath her bed scraped as he scooted it out. He bumped the bed when he sat. His legs would be at an awkward angle due to the cramped space in the wagon.

  Where was Puri Daj? Why had she allowed him in?

  “Sweeting, are you awake?”

  Vangie stiffened. What was he doing here? She whispered, “Leave me alone.”

  “Your grandmother told me about the baby.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so very sorry.”

  Oh, how she needed a comforting touch. But not his. Never again his. She wrenched away from him.

  Her voice ringing with scathing condemnation, she said, “Tell me, Lord Warrick, are you terribly disappointed I’ll not have a distended belly proclaiming to the world I carry your seed before you discard me?”

  Vangie heard him suck in a great gulp of air.

  “She was lying, Vangie.”

  She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the sobs demanding release.

  Was she? Or was Lucinda telling the truth, and Ian the liar?

  When she didn’t respond he pressed, “Lucinda knew you were behind me. Her lies were contrived to cause you pain and grief.”

  He laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’re legally married. By all that is holy, I swear it.”

  What did he know of holiness?

  Vangie struggled to turn over, the weight of the quilt covering her adding to the burden of her grief. She pinned him with a direct look. “Tell me one thing,” she rasped, “Did you or did you not venture to London for the express purpose of causing my downfall?”

  “Vangie. . .”

  “Perhaps downfall isn’t accurate. Putting me in my place? Giving me my just due? Ruining me?”

  He said nothing. Had guilt rendered him speechless? She searched his face. His handsome features were etched with sorrow, and his eyes . . . was that regret? Or . . . could it be? Were those tears awash in the silvery depths?

  Her heart twisted painfully. Blast and damn. No. She’d not feel compassion for him. She was the victim. She would offer him no quarter, no mercy.

  “Well, did you?”

  “That was before I. . .”

  Pain, razor-sharp pierced her heart and left it bleeding. “It’s a simple question, Ian. Yes or no?”

  “It’s not that simple—”

  With a doggedness that surprised even her, Vangie persisted. “Yes or no?”

  “Sweeting, I’d been told. . .”

  Told? Fury whipped anew. She bit out, “Yes. Or. No?”

  Absolute, resolute, demanding truth’s validation, either to mend her shattered heart or annihilate it completely, Vangie would have her answer. No more a corked-brained, beguiled miss, blinded by love. Looking through the twin lenses of betrayal and deceit, she could at last see Ian clearly.

  His eyes pleaded with her to understand. His voice low and filled with self-condemnation, he uttered
but one syllable.

  “Yes.”

  Vangie rolled onto her side murmuring in a voice choked with tears, “Go away.”

  Her shoulders shook with the sobs she couldn’t suppress, couldn’t hide from him. She needed to find some meager degree of release for the pain destroying her soul.

  “Vangie—” He touched her head.

  Flinging his hand away, she sat up. A torrent of scalding tears flowed from her eyes. She knew her face mirrored the abject misery in her heart. She swiped at them angrily, then pointed to the door.

  “Leave, you despicable bostaris. I’ve already divorced you,” she shouted, not caring the Romani camp could hear her every word.

  Where was her dagger? She groped beneath the pillow until her fingers closed on the familiar engraved hilt.

  Ian’s face paled. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”

  “I’m not addled, just gullible.”

  She revealed her dagger. “Now get out!”

  The door was flung open, banging against the side of the vardo. Ian twisted on the stool to see who’d entered. Simone, hovered in the entrance, worry stamped across her face. He stood, shoving the stool beneath the bed once more. It scraped loudly in the tiny structure.

  Scooting by him, Simone gathered Vangie in her arms. “Hush, bad inderi, my dear child.”

  Tilting her head, indicating the gaping door, Simone silently ordered Ian to leave.

  With one last glance at Vangie, he turned and took the two short steps to the open door. Bending to step through the narrow entrance, he faltered before descending the wagon’s short flight of stairs. A group of concerned Roma had gathered outside the wagon. From the reproachful looks on their faces, he guessed they’d heard every word of his painful exchange with Vangie.

  He scowled and lowered his chin defensively.

  Ailsa, her eyes huge, swung her gaze from Ian, to the closed door, and back to him. “Lord Warrick?”